Mira in the Present Tense (24 page)

She smooths her short gray hair as if remembering the feel of her long black mane running through her fingers.

“Did she indeed? We once had an art stall on the Embankment, me and your Granddad Kit,” Nana tells me.

I can't think of anything to say. It's usually me who keeps the conversation going. Not today. Krish never says very much when we come to see Nana. Usually, he goes to the Family Room and watches football with the man who got married. Sometimes he tells Nana about his football or his running, but mostly he's very quiet, for him. Today he asks her for a sheet of her best art paper. Nana points to her bedside table and Krish tears a sheet out of her book. He doesn't think he's any good at art. Whenever he gets art homework from school, he always asks me to help him. Once he got a certificate for his “excellent artwork.” On the certificate it said
Krish Levenson, for your achievement in art
,
but he crossed out his name and added mine in instead and handed the certificate back to me. Krish is one of the most honest people I know. Actually, he is really good at art. He just forgets that I'm two years older than him, so I understand about things like perspective that he hasn't even thought about yet.

Once, in primary school, we had this Aboriginal artist come in. He said Aboriginal people believe in dreamtime. He took us into the playground, led us out of the school gates, and marched us up the hill. He asked us, when we were walking, to listen to the land speaking to us. I couldn't really hear or feel anything, but Krish thought he felt water under the pavement. When we got back to school, we had a look on an old map outside the principal's office and it turned out there was an ancient river underneath the street, just where Krish felt it. Some of Krish's friends said he must have known that already, but he didn't.

Because of that, the Aboriginal man made Krish stand up in front of the whole assembly. He said that Krish had still got the power of dreaming. Krish looked pretty embarrassed, but I could tell he was pleased with himself. The Aboriginal artist said dreaming is when you are in touch with the energy of the earth, so your footprint feels a memory of how that place was created, even if that was thousands and thousands of years ago. Krish had to stand next to the Aboriginal man while he was saying all this. Then, in front of everyone, Krish asked if that means there is always a memory in the earth for everything, even when it's dead. The Aboriginal man nodded and did this funny greeting to Krish, which you only do when you really respect someone.

Tonight, I think Krish came to the hospice with a plan because he's brought a bucketful of felt tips in with him. It's amazing to see him sitting so still as he dots each tiny speck of color onto the page. He's drawing hundreds and thousands of little gray, brown, and black dots in a curved shape round the edge of the paper. He's been working on it for about an hour and he's only just finished one circle, but when he gets to the part where the circle should connect, he curves the dots inward to create the beginning of the next circle. Nana asks him what he's making.

“A pattern.”

“What kind of pattern, Krish?”

“A spiral,” he says without looking up.

Then he picks out the blue colors and starts on the next layer of dots.

“The outside colors are the sea, then the next layers are going to be the land, and the sun's in the center,” explains Krish as he carries on and on printing the tiny dots on the page.

“Whoever would have thought…Krish the runner, the jack-in-the-box, would know how to meditate,” Nana smiles.

He shrugs, like he hasn't got a clue what she's talking about.

I stand there, staring out of the window, still hardly daring to meet Nana's eye, as if just by looking at me, she will know what I wished.

“How's little Laila?”

“Fine…she's teething though,” I lie without turning round. I'm getting better and better at lying.

“It's a dreamtime picture, Nana,” Krish chirps up, changing the subject.

Nana nods, blows Krish a kiss, and closes her eyes.

When I finally get back home, I sprint up to my room to pick up Jidé's voicemail message.

“Hi, Mira, it's Jidé. Sorry! I forgot to take my mobile in to school today. I've been thinking about you all day. Hope you're in tomorrow. See you soon.”

Now that's what I call a fantastic message. I lie on my pillow and press repeat over and over, and that is how I finally drift off to sleep listening to Jidé Jackson's voice…
“I've been thinking about you all day…I've been thinking about you
…
”

Clank! Clank! Clank! Clank!

“All right, I'm coming!”

“Where were you yesterday? I called by for you, but there was no one in.” Millie scans my face for signs of bad news. I can't believe I completely forgot to call her.

“I had the day off.”

“You could have called me. You don't look like you've had a day off!”

“Sorry, it was a crazy day. Laila got taken into hospital, then we had to go to see Nana.”

“Little Laila! Is she OK?”

“She will be,” I say. “She'll be out in a few days.”

“We all thought maybe your nana…” She trails off, not wanting to finish her sentence.

“Millie. Do you believe in God?”

“Yes. Why? Don't you?”

“I'm not sure.”

Millie frowns at me, as if to say, “Do we
have
to have one of these big conversations right now?” Then she shoots me her mischievous smile.

“Jidé Jackson seems very interested to talk to me about you.”

“Really,” I say, as if I'm not that bothered.

“Really,” replies Millie, grinning at me.

I think we must be the first in school, but then we pass Orla sitting on a bench outside the year-seven block. Without her sidekicks, Demi and Bo, she looks so tiny and, well, lonely.

“Why don't you come to this writing group we're in? See if you like it. You might as well; you're always in so early,” I say.

Orla shakes her head. I can see that there's no way she's going to change her mind.

“Maybe next time,” I mumble, walking off feeling slightly stupid for asking in the first place.

“Thanks though,” Orla calls after me.

I turn and smile at her.

“What made you do that?” asks Millie, staring at me as if she hardly recognizes me.

“I don't know really…I just thought…she's been all right to me since…”

“You're right. We should have asked her before. I can't believe we've just walked straight past her every week, especially me, when I know how tough it is for her.”

“Why so tough?”

“I'll tell you later,” Millie sighs as I swing open the door to the year-seven block.

In the space of a few days Orla has been transformed from one of the three-headed bullies into a human being just because I'm not too scared to talk to her anymore. I look back at her and notice, more than ever, how small and thin she is.

Jidé and Ben are sprawled in their usual couldn't-care-less pose over their desks—these days they wear their boredom like an unconvincing fashion item. Strange that they're always the first to arrive! As soon as Jidé sees me, he sits up and grins. I have to stop myself bursting out laughing because he looks like one of those cute, over-keen meerkats you see on nature programs. I sit down in the seat right next to his and out of the corner of my eye catch Millie smirking.

Pat Print looks up and smiles at us all, as if us four sitting in front of her in this room is something that she's been looking forward to all week. How does someone make you feel like that, just by the way they smile at you?

“Good to see you, girls. Let's get straight on. What we're looking at today is…character…my favorite subject. You can't be a writer unless you're interested in people, and people are characters. All writers have to start by working out why people behave the way they do, their motivations. What makes people choose their paths in life? Or maybe they don't feel as if they have a choice. Their ambitions, their drives, their fatal flaws, what makes them tick. Now that's a lot to think about, I know, but you'll be surprised how quickly a character can emerge. This is an exercise I use myself, I call it ‘instant writing.' The most important thing is not to take your pen off the page…just keep writing whatever nonsense pops into your mind. Sometimes it's the unconscious mind that provides us with the best material. I want you to choose someone you know—change their names if you want to—anyone you find interesting, and write the first things that come into your head when I give you some prompt words. Don't think too much…let the random in! Pens and paper at the ready!”

After about five minutes of writing, trying to get everything down before Pat Print jumps on to the next word, she orders us to lay our pens down. Nobody wants to stop writing, so we all race to finish off our sentences. When I finally take my pen off the paper, I realize how hard I've been pressing because my hand aches so badly.

“Excellent! Now who would like to read theirs out? It probably won't make exact sense, but it'll be all the better for that. How about you, Jidé?”

Jidé shakes his head.

“Fair enough, what about you, Ben?”

Ben shakes his head, echoing Jidé, as usual.

“I see it's going to be up to the girls then.”

Pat Print turns to Millie with a slightly pleading smile. Millie nods and starts to read.

Orla Banks. Aged twelve. Looks…thin, small, pale skin like milk, gray-blue eyes, mousy hair. Favorite color…I don't know. Personality…shy, only confident in a gang, bullies if she's with Demi and Bo, jealous, lonely, sad, hungry. What I've noticed…never eats her lunch, always gives it away or throws it in the trash, or hides it…never seen her eating anything. What I know…her dad's left home, she lives with her mum in a flat
opposite me, with her brother who's about two years old. She's always looking after her little brother. Her mum drops her off at school at seven thirty in the morning every day because she's got to get to work. She's a nurse, very thin and worried-looking, just like Orla, but her baby brother is fat.